"Your household goods. They came in on No. 9."
Robert recovered himself. He remembered this was a village where
everything that goes on--everything--is known.
The stairway rose picturesquely out of the office to the low second
story, and up these stairs they tramped to their tiny rooms which were
like cells.
"Oh, mamma, ain't it queer?" cried the boys.
"Supper is all ready," the landlord's soft, deep voice announced a few
moments later, and the boys responded with whoops of hunger.
They were met by the close scrutiny of every boarder as they entered, and
they heard also the muttered comments and explanations.
"Family to take the Merrill house."
"He looks purty well flaxed out, don't he?"
They were agreeably surprised to find everything neat and clean and
wholesome. The bread was good and the butter delicious. Their spirits
revived.
"That butter tastes like old times," said Robert. "It's fresh. It's
really butter."
They made a hearty meal, and the boys, being filled up, grew sleepy.
After they were put to bed Robert said, "Now, Mate, let's go see the
house."
They walked out arm in arm like lovers. Her sturdy form steadied him,
though he would not have acknowledged it. The red flush was not yet gone
from the west, and the hills still kept a splendid tone of purple-black.
It was very clear, the stars were out, the wind deliciously soft. "Isn't
it still?" Robert almost whispered.
They walked on under the budding trees up the hill, till they came at
last to the small frame house set under tall maples and locust-trees,
just showing a feathery fringe of foliage.
"This is our home," said Robert.
Mate leaned on the gate in silence. Frogs were peeping. The smell of
spring was in the air. There was a magnificent repose in the hour,
restful, recreating, impressive.
"Oh, it's beautiful, Robert! I know we shall like it."
"We must like it," he said.